of what I had to say, none of what I had to think, could be worthy of her time and attention. Can you guess what she did?"
Hau Ngai is attracting looks—a woman so statuesque in formal suit is a sight anywhere. She pays them no regard. The conversation however can't be going well, if her expression's anything to go by. Julienne observes and after half a minute becomes certain Hau Ngai is actually not blinking. "Kiss you?"
"That came later." Auntie laughs. "She wouldn't admit it now—not in company—but she kissed me first. Back then, though, she just told me that of course she wanted to listen, if I was willing to talk. I told her, oh, everything I suppose. All about my life. You see?"
"I'm not as brave as you are. And I've turned enough people away by being hysterical. Or not hysterical enough." Her living relatives were never able to bear how quiet she was, how ungrieved, at her parents' funeral.
"My child, my niece, you aren't going to turn me away short of committing mass murder—and even then… well, you know who I'm married to. Remember, if not for you I'd still be bound to the moon."
Hers was only a small part. It seems so long ago that a stranger approached her, calling herself Hau Ngai while claiming her wife was Seung Ngo, and told Julienne a very peculiar story. Will you burn this rope ladder for your grandaunt? An offering, as for the ancestral dead. Is your wife a ghost then? Flesh and blood, and beautiful. And then they entered her life, giving her everything. "I'll try, Auntie. I don't want you unhappy."
Auntie Seung Ngo holds her in cool, long arms. "This isn't about me being happy. But it is a start. Until then, why don't we go shopping? It's my turn to spoil you."
* * *
Houyi is being followed. She has been since Kowloon Station and her wife did not miss the fact. By unspoken agreement then they've divided the labor, Chang'e to keep an eye on Julienne and Houyi to the rest.
She waits at a threshold between mortal earth and banbuduo, an entry gained after another bargaining with Daji. The creature dogging her isn't far behind; it too may straddle the line between worlds.
The earth browns and dries, as it was in the decades following the rising of the ten suns. Above her the sky blazes cloudless and around her a scorched valley rises. Grime covers her robes; on her cheeks sweat has dried to hard salt.
Gaunt-cheeked bandits close in with gleaming blades and gleaming eyes. A line of them on a cliff-face overhead, bent on their knees, arrows against taut strings.
There's blood on her, and hunger straining against her ribs. Her clothes sag loose against limbs gone to skin on bones. This was her death, eons ago.
She could have told the master of this spell that it lacks much; that it doesn't compare, even a fraction, to that of Nuwa's fox.
Absently she kills the men she killed those uncounted mortal lifetimes past. She did not hesitate then; she has less cause now and they shred like waxed paper, like dry bamboo—bloodlessly tidy. Her knife goes through the boy who fired the fatal shot into her breast. But much as others, he returns to his feet stutter-start, hand to the curve of bow: steady, the way she taught the original.
Houyi whips about and drives her blade into the forearm of a bearded, thick-set man. The sound he makes is the creak of wood not meant to flex, wood bent to the threshold of breaking.
The illusion dissipates. Borderland fog rolls over them, colorless, damp without odor.
Houyi removes the knife and slides it between two wooden ribs. There's resistance and this is not an ideal tool, but she has both patience and strength. "Most of your kind know better than to bait me."
The creature's face is crossbred between man and art. Poreless and polished, carved rather than born. He, or it, does not answer.
"Ah," she murmurs, "you'd be more afraid of fire."
Her control of it is poor—this has never been hers, the sun-heat she's absorbed over the sentence of punishment and
Hau Ngai is attracting looks—a woman so statuesque in formal suit is a sight anywhere. She pays them no regard. The conversation however can't be going well, if her expression's anything to go by. Julienne observes and after half a minute becomes certain Hau Ngai is actually not blinking. "Kiss you?"
"That came later." Auntie laughs. "She wouldn't admit it now—not in company—but she kissed me first. Back then, though, she just told me that of course she wanted to listen, if I was willing to talk. I told her, oh, everything I suppose. All about my life. You see?"
"I'm not as brave as you are. And I've turned enough people away by being hysterical. Or not hysterical enough." Her living relatives were never able to bear how quiet she was, how ungrieved, at her parents' funeral.
"My child, my niece, you aren't going to turn me away short of committing mass murder—and even then… well, you know who I'm married to. Remember, if not for you I'd still be bound to the moon."
Hers was only a small part. It seems so long ago that a stranger approached her, calling herself Hau Ngai while claiming her wife was Seung Ngo, and told Julienne a very peculiar story. Will you burn this rope ladder for your grandaunt? An offering, as for the ancestral dead. Is your wife a ghost then? Flesh and blood, and beautiful. And then they entered her life, giving her everything. "I'll try, Auntie. I don't want you unhappy."
Auntie Seung Ngo holds her in cool, long arms. "This isn't about me being happy. But it is a start. Until then, why don't we go shopping? It's my turn to spoil you."
* * *
Houyi is being followed. She has been since Kowloon Station and her wife did not miss the fact. By unspoken agreement then they've divided the labor, Chang'e to keep an eye on Julienne and Houyi to the rest.
She waits at a threshold between mortal earth and banbuduo, an entry gained after another bargaining with Daji. The creature dogging her isn't far behind; it too may straddle the line between worlds.
The earth browns and dries, as it was in the decades following the rising of the ten suns. Above her the sky blazes cloudless and around her a scorched valley rises. Grime covers her robes; on her cheeks sweat has dried to hard salt.
Gaunt-cheeked bandits close in with gleaming blades and gleaming eyes. A line of them on a cliff-face overhead, bent on their knees, arrows against taut strings.
There's blood on her, and hunger straining against her ribs. Her clothes sag loose against limbs gone to skin on bones. This was her death, eons ago.
She could have told the master of this spell that it lacks much; that it doesn't compare, even a fraction, to that of Nuwa's fox.
Absently she kills the men she killed those uncounted mortal lifetimes past. She did not hesitate then; she has less cause now and they shred like waxed paper, like dry bamboo—bloodlessly tidy. Her knife goes through the boy who fired the fatal shot into her breast. But much as others, he returns to his feet stutter-start, hand to the curve of bow: steady, the way she taught the original.
Houyi whips about and drives her blade into the forearm of a bearded, thick-set man. The sound he makes is the creak of wood not meant to flex, wood bent to the threshold of breaking.
The illusion dissipates. Borderland fog rolls over them, colorless, damp without odor.
Houyi removes the knife and slides it between two wooden ribs. There's resistance and this is not an ideal tool, but she has both patience and strength. "Most of your kind know better than to bait me."
The creature's face is crossbred between man and art. Poreless and polished, carved rather than born. He, or it, does not answer.
"Ah," she murmurs, "you'd be more afraid of fire."
Her control of it is poor—this has never been hers, the sun-heat she's absorbed over the sentence of punishment and
Similar Books
